


The Man in Charge

by LazBriar



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor ain't about to have a good time, Anal, Bloodplay, Gay, M/M, Oral, Smut, Submission, Tentacles, That's right tentacles, commission, explicit - Freeform, explicit sexual situations, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: Lest one forgets, He is still Emperor of Hell. When Alastor visits ol' Lucifer Magne, he gets FAR more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Alastor/Lucifer Magne
Comments: 11
Kudos: 174





	The Man in Charge

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a commission, and it's smut. Boy is it smut, so much so the characters are, imaginably, not quite as accurate as usual. I mean look tendrils are getting involved, so. If you're not into the idea of Alastor getting reamed over by the Devil's poker, you uh, may want to spare thine eyes.
> 
> That said, for the rest, enjoy!

**The Man in Charge**

By Laz Briar

“Nice of you to stop by.”

Alastor maintained his sneer, strutting into the lovely – if not overdone – royal estate, engulfed by the sizeable main quarters, surrounded by ornate statutes and gilded portraits. He polished his clawed fingers on chest as the other figure strode past him, figure held by long, silk-white overcoat.

“Why, I’d never miss a chance to reminisce with you, _old chum,”_ said Alastor, his tone touched with vibrations of distorted static, other hand carrying his mic-staff.

Old chum _indeed._ This wasn’t any old guest call, no ordinary visit. Oh, no, he was in the domain of _Him,_ of _He:_ Lucifer, the Devil, the Tempter, the Eternal Foe, Morning Star, and the many other illustrious names and visages he went by. To so many eyes, naught but an ordinary demon in foppish alabaster clothes and flesh, wearing a sinister but charming smile, a hat with a whimsical worm and apple, and a voice like. . .

“It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

Ahh. Warm honey? No. Indescribable, it was. Lucifer’s tone was soft, but commanding, hinting at the eternal and ever-present authority he maintained (or believed to). Alastor was not impressed, of course. Why the Devil was and old lad, a fuddy duddy! A foe lacking imagination! He was on the stage far too long and it showed. What meaningful thing had he done as of recent, anyway? Oh, ever since he tilled the sulphuric ground of Hell and grew Pentagram City, he’d gotten soft, distant, _uninterested._ No doubt he’d called on Alastor, _The Radio Demon,_ for something. And Al wanted to bet that _something_ was help. After all, his own reputation was remarkable, illustrious! If you didn’t know his name, you _should._

“A minute too much, my coated companion! Why we haven’t tap-danced in twos for what feels like an eternity! It’s _Hell,_ after all, every insufferable second is just that, ahaha!”

A chorus of invisible chuckles accompanied Alastor’s remark.

Lucifer turned with all the grace and power expected of him, eyes locking to Alastor. “I suppose we’ll have to catch up again, _friend.”_

Ah, yes, Alastor could sense the timid pangs of resentment. Why not? Why, ol’ Lucy was a supporting actor in his own play, at this point! An afterthought. But what did one expect when they allowed things to run amock? When you abdicated from your stance of _Emperor of Hell,_ why in the underworld would anyone respect your name?

“Of course,” continued Alastor, glancing around. “I’m your shoulder to cry on, so to speak, ahaha!”

Lucifer made no indication he was bothered, his motions light and pleasant. He gestured to the wall, towards a door, one no more different or strange than a common house frame. Was that always there? Alastor glanced to it, tilting his head.

“Why, that sounds lovely,” said Lucifer. “In fact, tell me what you think of my next project. It’s a rough draft, a little early, but you’re one I can trust, yes?”

Alastor wanted to laugh and fought back the urge to do so. Oh, Lucy, were you so insecure in your domain that you dared to fancy the opinion of others? Ahaha, how quaint! How droll! Alastor kept himself from grinning wider, clearing his throat.

“Why, so close we are! Don’t tell Lilly, she might get jealous!” said Alastor, watching Lucifer approach the door. Again, neither Lucy’s tone nor posture changed, unbothered, indifferent.

“Good,” he said, beckoning for Alastor. The Radio Demon took a few steps, enough to get a gander at the wooden frame. He sensed nothing unusual about it, and it was so _boring._ An odd eyesore, entirely out of place at Lucifer’s grand establishment of seemingly labyrinthian design. Was it this, then? Was Lucifer looking for opinions on furniture? A rather hilarious fall from his status of evil, wasn’t it?

“Now. . .” intoned Lucifer, rubbing his chin. “What was it? Ah, yes.”

He gripped the knob, turning it to the left twice, then to the right once. Alastor watched until the door slid open. As he did, Alastor expected something like a blank room or an interior of similar simplicity. What he saw was nothing.

Wait, nothing?

Alastor’s grin faded _slightly._ Indeed, as the frame opened, there, through the opening was a vast and infinite of abyss of pure, absolute, lightless dark. A blackness stretching into itself, a void womb. Naturally, Lucifer stepped into it. Or, rather stepped on a mass of land forming beneath his feet. When it did, he looked back to Alastor, expectant.

“Come now, have a look with me.”

As he said this, Alastor heard. . . well, not Lucifer. But also Lucifer. It was the same, yet different. It sounded less the cheerful, smiling representation the Devil currently wore and instead like a sound coming from a place Alastor could not imagine. How odd.

Alastor, unafraid, straightened his tie and followed along. “Why of course, chum, seems you have quite the stage!”

He spread his arms as he stepped on the small island of “land,” gesturing around. “It’s fantastic! Quite a lot of _nothing._ Such lack of effort is an accomplishment in itself!”

Lucifer wiggled his fingers. “Hmm? Ah, of course.”

One finger wiggled in a circle. “Sometimes, you can only see with eyes of faith.”

Alastor wasn’t sure what the old boy referred to, not until another isle of material coalesced before them. Upon said isle was something Alastor could only see as a civilization. An entire miniscule world of living, breathing things, dallying about their daily, tiny lives, unaware of the ceaseless oblivion around them, nor the Devil gazing upon their fragile existence.

“You see?” said Lucifer. “The Dust of Man is a. . . boundless resource, I’ve found. This one here, these, I’ve been watching for a while. Curious. Waiting. I’ve a theory, an exciting one.”

Alastor maintained his grin. “Oh? And what might that be?”

Lucifer chuckled. “Oh, I’ve left them be. Haven’t bothered, allowing them to exist. I want to see it sprout, to see the evil that exists in their hearts.”

“This thesis of mine,” he continued, glancing at Alastor. “That evil is part of all things, and left to indulgence, will foster itself.”

Alastor raised a brow. A lot of puffery for the old fellow, not the kind he typically indulged. He fancied a pitiful shoulder pat but even for him that was a little on the nose. “Why, would _dare_ challenge such a juvenile hypothesis!”

Lucifer’s expression did not change. “Who indeed,” he intoned, in such a way it felt _directed._ Alastor blinked.

“Why, old friend,” started the Radio Demon, hand going to chest. “There’s something there! Oh, I can sense it, I can. You think _me_ in such a way, dear chum?”

Alastor dawned a faux pained expression. “Oh, the humanity of it, the pain! Why Lucy, I can’t stand to see us this way! Imagine the gossip!”

Lucifer said nothing, and once again waved his hand. The isle of civilization he mused over shifted, thrown back into the dark, infinite void. Instead, taking its place was a small isle not dissimilar from the last, save _this_ one was inhabited by a door. Quaint, much like the pair used to enter Lucifer’s abyssal domain. He flicked his fingers, and the frame opened once again, revealing another _existence,_ a chamber within the labyrinthian walls of the Devil’s estate.

Wordlessly, he stepped through, and with a shrug, Alastor followed. Sightseeing, were they? Or perhaps the old boy was running out of fuel already. That was the state of affairs these days, it seemed. Still, he followed along, intrigued to see where they were going.

. . .as it turned out, the same exact living room. Or, was it? Hmm. The paintings were the same, yet not. No, in fact, they were menacing in construction, the once beautiful images smeared with horrible images and mutations. The air, too, was thicker, almost stung with the taste of blood. What a strange thing.

“It’s the evil we all forget,” Lucy finally said. Alastor snapped his eyes to his “comrade,” who stood with arms behind back. But like the room, he was different too, in a subtle way. A menace lingered in his gaze, as though bearing the lightless void he and Alsastor had just left. That was. . . new.

“Tell me, Alastor,” said Lucifer, his voice roiling like oceans, echoing yet not. “Where do you think you stand in my island?”

Alastor tilted his head. “Island? Why old boy, perhaps I need a pair of new spectacles, but I’m afraid I don’t see any water, not even the River Styx!”

Lucifer ignored the remark, taking a step. His grin vanished, alabaster flesh no longer stretched with a wide smile, nor a frown. “It’s funny, you know?”

Another step. “I watch you all from time to time. See what you get up to, the antics, the oddities, the violence. I let this go on, you know, let it _fester.”_

Alastor, unimpressed, rubbed his fingers on chest, a muffled static chuckle erupting around him. “Sounds a little lackadaisical, old friend. If I could fancy some advice, a hands-on approach yields more apples.”

Lucifer gave a single, harrowing laugh. “You’re so right.”

In a single, terrifyingly graceful motion, Lucifer came closer to Alastor and, at once, placed his hands upon Alastor’s cheek. In that moment, a siege of raw power and control overcame the Radio Demon, an aura shackling him in place, a command born from boundless strength. Alastor’s grin shrank, and though he still wore a smile, he stared into those eyes, those back, pitiless eyes, which consumed him, devoured him.

“Like the others, I let you strut about and pretend and enjoy yourself,” said Lucifer. “It’s, oh, how do you say it? _Entertaining.”_

To his astonishment. . . Alastor was paralyzed. Usually, such encroachments or chest-puffery was met with quick resilience. A snap of fingers and burst of energy vaporized or mangled a foe who might dare have the audacity to even get _close_ to him. And yet, Lucifer’s proximity seemed to vanquish any attempt to move, to shift, like he was _cancelling_ him out.

“What. . .”

Lucifer tilted his head, studying the Deer Demon. “Today, I felt, oh, you could use a reminder. It’s not like me to do that, you see. I let you all sort each other out, like the Old Days.”

 _Let them_ sort eachother out? If Alastor could bristle, he would. What foolishness was that? It almost sounded like Lucifer took a backseat because he _could,_ as if _he_ was the one pulling the strings!

“Do you still feel in control?” said Lucifer, pushing his face closer to Alastor. “Like a schemer? A ringmaster? Mm, what would Vox and the others say? Oh, I jest, of course, it’s the same for them.”

He chuckled. “I wanted to remind you, Alastor. I have many names, many faces. I appear in different words and times. Somewhere else I’m a great dragon or a man in a posh suit. Here? Oh, your smiling _friend_.”

Alastor tried to pull himself out of whatever lull he was currently in, but it proved fruitless. Was _this_ it then, the real reason the Devil invited him over? To show off his “power” and “control?”

“I’m starting to think we’re more acquaintances, chum,” Alastor managed back, forcing his grin wide.

Lucifer tilted his head at an angle most unnatural. “I can always appreciate your _humor.”_

Here, Lucy’s hand slipped to Alastor’s neck, running a finger across the pale, grayish flesh. “Ah, you know, it’s been quite a while since I _partook.”_

Partook? What did that. . .

Alastor didn’t have time to ponder the question, as Lucifer slipped closer, his mouth so dangerously close to Alastor’s neck. Again, the Radio Demon was overcome with a paralyzing force, helpless to observe the Devil toy with him. But Lucy wasn’t content to _observe,_ oh no. Much like Alastor did with a chunk of rare flesh, the Devil took his fangs and sank them into the exposed neck, applying a hard, possessive bite that cracked the skin with ease. Alastor’s eyes winced, but his smile remained, an eruption of hot pain spidering through his neck. His fingers flexed, thinking to perhaps summon a family of tendrils but. . . he stayed his hand.

Indeed, that was another problem. What if he, in fact, took opposition against _the_ Lucifer? Was he ready for that contest of strength? Oh, Alastor always believed he could top the old man if it came to blows, but now? He wasn’t so sure. Was he _truly_ so feeble in the face of the Devil? He couldn’t help but feel. . . eclipsed.

Well, _now_ he was feeling something else, the hard, possessive bite courtesy of Hell’s Emperor. Lucifer made a humming, pleased sound, and Alastor felt his tongue roll across the bite, licking at the river of flowing crimson.

“Mhmhmhm,” Lucky chuckled, savoring the flavor. “I did forget the flavor of raw deer,” he added, pulling away from Alastor, wiping his teeth. There was a deep gash leftover, staining the front of Alastor’s red attire.

When Alastor stared back into the voids that were once his “friend’s” eyes, they affixed him with an overwhelming gaze. “Not your usual stage performance, is it?” said the Devil.

“That’s all right. Rather than presenting you with the illusion of choice, I’ll make it for _both_ of us.’

Never, in his existence Down Here, did Alastor experience a sensation like this. His frame softened, surrendered to the unseen force of Lucifer’s will. His mind blurred, dizzying even, and his thoughts of retaliation faded. He couldn’t even manage a clever quip and the static audience accompanying his actions fell silent.

“Do you admire theology, Alastor?” said Lucifer, leaning back as if to admire his “work.” Head swimming, Alastor tried to raise an arm or make a quip, _something_ to showoff he still had fight in him, but it was like he was swallowed up by a vortex.

Lucifer polished his fingers, as if in mock of Alsastor’s usual mannerisms. “So many different things and stories. So many gods, heroes, and villains. But you know what I find so _interesting_ about them?”

The Devil reached over and placed a finger under Alastor’s chin. “They’re so _sordid.”_

He chuckled. “You like theater too, don’t you? Or, was that radio? Ah, you’re all so theatric.”

Alastor winced internally. _Come now, old boy, pull yourself together. You’re really going to let the Devil make a mickey of you? He’s stealing your spotlight!_

“Well, enough of that, I’m starting to sound like dear old Dad. Let’s you and I act as if we were on stage, mimicking those lust filled tales of old, eh?”

Alastor blinked, finding enough strength to at least _squint._ What, in the name of oblivion, did that mean? Lucifer seemed to sense the question.

“Don’t be coy, old friend,” said Lucifer, taking a long once over of Alastor’s lithe, still frame. “You _know_ what this means.”

He snapped his fingers, the shadows around him starting to shift. “Let’s get a little creative, yes? You like using these when it pleases you, so. . .”

By “these,” Lucifer meant a sprawl of tendrils sprouting around him, thick arms of inky black appearing from the ground, summoned, not dissimilar from what Alastor did. They, with ravenous motions, enveloped Alastor, slipping around his legs and arms in a constricting grip. The Radio Demon could not struggle, helpless to feel as the slithering tentacles groped and held him, possessive in their motions, much like a cat toying with its food.

“Nnngh. . .”

Lucifer put a hand to ear. “Hmm? What’s that old friend?”

He chuckled. “Oh, what am I saying, you won’t have space to use that mouth anyway.”

Again, Lucifer snapped his fingers, and the multiple tendrils squirmed to life. A set of them held Alastor by the wrists, another drifting around his neck. Lucifer watched, black pits that were his eyes affixed to Alastor’s own. Here, in this moment, Alastor could truly _see._ Here, he started to make sense of what he was looking at: not “Lucifier” of Pentagram City, not the Devil of _this_ realm, but _the_ Morning Star, _the_ Eternal Enemy. An evil void wearing the shape of a pale-skinned, suit wearing charmer.

“Though. . . it is _tempting_ to let you speak. Ah, well.”

Lucy’s digit twirled, and one of the tendrils rose in front of the Deer Demon’s visage, shaped to his quiet fury like a phallus. Truly, a blow to his dignity. So that was Lucy’s game? Try to break him through sexual means?

He didn’t have time to muse over the “philosophy” of Lucy’s actions, as the tendril shoved forward and buried itself in Alastor’s maw. With brute, uncaring force, it pushed itself past his lips and threatened to lunge into his throat. Alastor gagged, granting a muffled cough as the shape worked through his lips. Its size was enough that he had no choice but to keep his mouth wrapped around it, eyes flickering and sparking like angry spheres of static-laced scarlet.

“There’s an old diddy about resistance and hardness, but I can’t quite remember it. . .” Lucy chided, watching as the summoned tendrils worked the hapless demon over. As the tendril pumped itself in slow, methodic strokes, trails of drool escaped Alastor’s maw, slipping down his chin, creating small puddles on the floor.

“Hgglk. . .”

“Mm?” said Lucifer, leaning. “Not your usual song and dance, I take it?”

The tendril momentarily left Alastor’s mouth, glistening with his saliva while the Radio Demon responded only with coughs and sputters. He felt the hold of Lucifer’s power leave him, if only to give him the strength to at least speak.

“I didn’t think. . .” he said, heaving breaths, “you’d make decisions so unwise, _old chum.”_

Lucifer frowned. “Unwise? Ah. . .”

He pushed his hands together. “You mean to threaten me? Put a curtain over the Morning Star? Ah, of course, you _are_ Alastor. I’d be. . . disappointed if you broke so easily.”

The tendril once again returned to its work, diving back into the awaiting orifice, only this time, plunging _further._ Before it had teased its prey with a sordid array of abrupt motions, but now, it pushed into his throat, outright bulging his oral chamber. Alastor had no choice to gag, and even attempting to bite into the viscous material did little to dissuade the tentacle from moving. If anything, it only _encouraged_ it. Alastor was helpless, a feeling he wasn’t used to, at the mercy of these _things_ and the ploys of the Devil.

But he wasn’t going to show signs of weakness. It would take a little more than an invasive arm to bother him. Repulsive it was, obnoxious too, but if _the Devil_ could only force something into his throat, perhaps the demiurge wasn’t as frightening as he thought.

It was like Lucifer heard him. “Ahh, well, think of like the pre-show, dear boy.”

He stepped closer and pushed a finger against Alastor’s chest, racing it across his suit, making a cut. The fabric loosened, revealing his greyish flesh, blood having run down the torso in thin rivers.

“The best part is yet to come. Ahaha, wordplay.”

Lucifer grinned. “See? Even I can muster a joke now and again.”

Then came the rest. Other tendrils appeared and began tearing at Alastor’s fine crimson suit, until he was nake for a few remaining tatters left on his frame. Lucifer, of course, was conveniently clothed.

“Apologies, old ‘friend.’ I’ll be sure to give you a new one.”

By oblivion. So, there he was, exposed, like a common tramp put on display for shame. Alastor flexed his fingers, expressing the little control he had. A strange thought encroached upon him too, one he was _certain_ didn’t belong to him, no doubt imposed by the Devil. . . but it was there. A small aspect of him _wanted_ it, if only for the merit of entertainment. Like a challenge, like he’d encountered a true foe once again. Though, perhaps, this wasn’t the kind of “combat” he was used to.

The pulsing, writhing tendrils wiggled into position while the Deer Demon was bent over, once more arms bound together behind his back. In his mind he contemplated a storm of vengeful thoughts, ideas on how to best take his revenge. Could he? How deep did the power of Lucifer go? Was he really just a wind-up toy to the many-faced Devil? Was Lucifer really just _allowing_ those like Alastor to go about their business because it amused him?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sensation he didn’t _ever_ expect. The tendril prodded his exposed, dark gray ring, wet from its previous “intrusion,” causing Alastor to grunt. He hissed through his endless grin, clenching fists. Suppose he should consider himself lucky he wasn’t exposed for others to see – his reputation might not survive.

“Consider it my mercy,” Lucifer said, chuckling, as though he could hear Alastor’s thoughts. Perhaps he could.

“Believe me, I was very _creative_ in my time. This is nothing.”

Judging by the _sensation,_ that girthy black tendril was quite a “nothing.” Gagh. Alastor had to chuckle. Chuckle, because in a sick sort of way, this whole thing was quite amusing, a real comical thing. The great Alastor bent over like a common trollop, about to be literally fucked into submission. It, at least, gave him ideas.

Ideas he’d have to consider another time because the tentacle was done teasing him. The length tickled against his awaiting hole, pucker flinching as it rubbed against him, causing his nethers to tremble and glisten. Then, in one brisk motion, it slammed its way into Alastor’s tunnel, expanding and filling him with ease. The saliva made its intrusion quite slick, and if Alastor wasn’t mistaken he felt a dribble of presex leak from its tip.

Lucifer, again, chuckled, walking past Alastor as the tendril began to pump in slow, powerful rhythms. Despite his asexual nature and despite his irritation at this whole affair, it managed to send warm, electric tingles throughout his slim frame. Each one drove waves of strange, intense physical sensations spiking up Alastor, enough that it managed to get _him_ aroused. Indeed, disinterested as he was, even his own cock couldn’t help but spring to life, hardening as the writhing tendril pumped and nuzzled his prostate.

“Gggh. . .”

Alastor tried to say something, but his static laced tones were muffled by, well, _arousal._ It’d be alarming if it wasn’t so vexingly pleasant. But this couldn’t be. . . of all things to find enjoyable, was it really _this?_

“Not your usual song and dance, is it?” chided Lucifer, shifting. He started to unfasten his own suit, although in a slower, far more dignified manner. Alastor, though, could barely notice, what with the flexible phallus burying itself in his supple haunches. As the tendril continued its ravenous throws, another came to coil around Alastor’s length, wrapping about it like a coiling snake. It gyrated in twirling strokes, wrapping and easing, a boon offered to Alastor where he was otherwise _used._

He was. . . dizzy. He couldn’t remember the last time his flesh experienced sensations like this, living or otherwise. So distracting, a physical static filling his mind, pushing his thoughts away from their usual schemes of entertainment. He was losing sense of _himself,_ and all it took, apparently, was a cock-ended tendril to work his pucker over for him to forget his namesake.

Just as he was getting used to the thick limb pounding his backside, it finally retracted, sticky with gooey dribble, bridging hole to tip. This, at least, allowed Alastor a moment to regain his conscious self, remember what was even going on. It was enough he shuddered from a _new_ sensation. The Devil, as it were, had gotten comfortable, and by that it meant Lucifer had taken to disrobing. No longer covered in his foppish white attire, but instead bare, pale snow-white flesh exposed, bathed in the dim firelight of the ornate room.

Alastor managed a glance, though didn’t get to see much. “I must say,” Lucifer said, running a finger across the Radio Demon’s back, “this isn’t such a bad look for you. All that _skin_ hidden, what a shame.”

Normally, Alastor might agree, but considering the circumstances. . .

Lucifer wasn’t content to leave him as is, however. No, the Devil had dawned _himself_ to enjoy Alastor. The tendrils were an appetizer, a demonstration, but one could not remind their foe without a _personal_ approach.

“You’ll forgive me if I go about this with as much grace as a bull, _Ally_ ,” said Lucifer, a hint of sadistic delight in his tone.

“Or I suppose, in your case, a stag.”

Alastor, _somewhat_ capable of speech, allowed himself one more quip. “Suppose. . . it’s all. . . the grace you’re known for. . . ahaha. . .”

Lucifer stepped closer, and this time, his stiff shaft found purchase at the inviting, wet ring. “What’s that, sass I hear? Good, good, I was afraid you gave up already.”

He reached over, gripping Alastor’s shoulder. “I’m sure _you_ of all sinners know, a hunt’s no good without challenging prey.”

Alastor might laugh if the situation wasn’t so compromising. At least Lucifer was getting creative. He mused, in bitter reflection, perhaps he was helping the Devil after all.

Lucifer’s shaft stiffened, surprisingly normal all things considered. Then again, perhaps its “normalcy” was another mercy granted on the part of the _Morning Star._ Doubtful he’d unleash his seven-headed dragon _here._

A hand came to Alastor’s neck, gripping the wound. The blood had dried but not enough to cut the flow entirely, like marinated meat. As he teased there, so did Lucifer with the end of his flank, the bellend pressing against Alastor’s previously used hole. It caused the Radio Demon to buck forward with a timid jolt, his deer tail wiggling in resistance. Unfortunately, as Lucifer indicated before, resistance only _added_ to his excitement.

Finally, the Devil was done toying with his evening food. He shoved forward, burying his loins into the awaiting, tight hole that was Alastor’s backside. Alastor grunted through his never-fading grin, wincing. A strange mix of humiliated pleasure rattled through him, and that overwhelming _lull_ he felt before had returned. He realized, before the Arch Enemy was prepared to use him, he’d been hypnotized, at least enough to subdue him. A great bastard, this Devil, no wonder his father tossed him out!

“Nmmm, I almost forgot how nice it feels. . . Lillith is quite busy these days, you see. . .”

Alastor didn’t muster a response, a little _preoccupied._ Once Lucifer had filled him, he was a trembling mess. Hard to come up with any witty retort when you stuffed like a Christmas goose. Lucifer wasted no time, then, his hands slipping to Alastor’s waist, wearing his own vicious sneer, beginning a slow but forceful set of thrusts. They formed a piston rhythm, one that took each time with every stroke, Lucy’s flank glistening from his own presex. Despite Alastor’s figure, there was enough _generosity_ to his backside, forcing a small but noticeable fleshy “slap” with every impact of hips to rear.

Each stroke of hips encouraged Lucifer to strike harder, forcing him to recall the pleasures of the mortal flesh. Even the Eternal Enemy could take some time to indulge himself, no?

So he did. Lucifer squeezed hips, a hand sliding to scrape against Alastor’s surprisingly soft rump before lunging into the tunnel. He did as promised, with all the subtly and grace of a bull, pounding into the generous deer meat as Alastor was helpless, only capable of _taking._ He leaned, bare chest to back, taking another hard, self-serving bite of the Deer Demon, savoring the flavor of pallid flesh and fresh blood.

Alastor, of course, was at the mercy of Hell’s Emperor. His entire body buzz and cock twitched. Some dreadful part of him was enjoying this, in a twisted sort of way. This was _Hell,_ after all, and getting prodded by the Devil’s hot poker. . . should he feel humiliated, or honored?

Didn’t matter, Lucifer wasn’t leaving much for thought anyway. As he ravaged Alastor, the tendrils reappeared, brutally shoving into the Deer Demon’s maw as he was spitroasted from both ends, leaving him in a twitching state, a sleeve to be used, as it were. Well, at least he had an idea of how Angel usually felt, hoho!

For a sordid moment, there was nothing but the aggressive rhythm of shove and thrust. Where Lucifer buried himself into Alastor, the tentacle worked in tandem. The Radio Demon could only withstand the storm, losing sense of control, supplicating to the Emperor of Hell. Not like had much choice.

Like a torrent, there was an experience so unfamiliar to Alastor, the peak, the physical height of bliss so many mortal things sought for the sheer intensity of it. Lucy reached his peak, flooding Alastor’s ripe tunnel with his literal demon seed, while the tendril responded in kind. He was filled with the essence of his tormenter, marked like a doe in the forests.

He faded, losing consciousness. Whether that was Lucifer’s will or his own self-giving way, he did not know.

-*-

When Alastor left that evening, it was like nothing had happened. He didn’t recall the entirety of his meeting with the ol’ Devil, and straightening his suit, figured they had a nice chat. He also figured his assumptions about Lucifer was correct, that the old man was losing his touch. A shame!

But as he went back to his cannibal annals in Pentagram City, Lucifer watched on, amused, _allowing_ Alastor and those like him to continue in their belief of power. After all, what fun would it be if the Radio Demon had lost the will to forego his usual antics? He let them believe, because it was all they really had.

He was always the man in charge.

**Author's Note:**

> If ever I thought I'd write a metaphor for Alastor getting stuffed like a christmas goose I'd wonder how much of gabriel's ganja I'd smoked


End file.
